


A love for the ages

by you_make_me_wander



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, More tags will be added as the story goes, Multi, Past Abuse, Romance, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_make_me_wander/pseuds/you_make_me_wander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Save me and I will save you.” - Petronius Arbiter</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the Medieval AU I’ve been wanting to write so bad. I’ve been dying to share this with you, guys!
> 
> Set in the High Middle Ages, it’ll have fluff and romance and friendship and family, but there will also be angst and LOTS of hurt/comfort. Also, beware of depictions of violence (not too graphic), mentions of past physical and sexual abuse and a few characters’ deaths (not the main ones, of course. I’m not that mean!), but it is a medieval setting, after all.
> 
> Now go on, go read! More notes at the end : )

** **

**Summary** : Lydia Martin is the princess and heir to the throne of the kingdom of Beacon Hills and Stiles Stilinski is the son of the Queen's most trusted royal advisor. Because they grow up together, Stiles and Lydia become best friends, inseparable at all times until the little girl is kidnapped when she’s barely even seven years old.

The kingdom looks for her for years but with no luck, and eventually life moves on and Stiles grows up to become a knight, following in his father’s footsteps and working close at the Queen’s side even at his young age. Several years pass before Stiles is sent out on a mission to the edge of the kingdom and is shocked to find a familiar strawberry blonde haired girl working out in the fields as a peasant. Determined to save her, Stiles risks both their lives to escape her abductor and take the princess back home.

As they embark in a journey neither of them could have foreseen and as they start to learn about the other what they missed in the years that went by, Lydia struggles to find her place in a Court she doesn't really fit in while Stiles tries his best to help her without overstepping his bounds. And even in all their misfortune and rough life, as they begin to grow up together again as fated, they can’t help but to fall hopelessly in love with each other.

**Prologue**

If his memory serves him right - and he has never found outthat it wronged him -, the first memory he has of _her_ is from when he was four years old.

It had been the first day of the Stilinski family at the Royal Castle and they had been invited by Her Majesty herself, no less, Queen Natalie. Stiles still remembers the moment he saw _her_ first with such clarity that he sometimes wonders if it was all a vivid dream and he imagined the whole thing, only a fleeting moment in between all the other memories of his childhood.

He remembers walking alongside his mother, his little hand clasped tightly in her much bigger one as they accompanied his father through hallway after hallway of the then unknown building - Stiles can now proudly say that he knows each and every corner of that fortress like the back of his hand – when he caught a glimpse of _it_.

They had been in a particularly badly lit cloister, the cold of the evening settling itself under his skin in a way that made the young boy feel somewhat out of place, uncomfortable in clothes that were far too fancy for his liking, to what he was used to, but _her_ giggle captured his attention and it all but soared and echoed through the stone walls. And when he found the source of the sound, long red hair was falling from the girl’s shoulder as she peeked at the newcomers from behind a corner, beautiful fire tresses decorating her pale skin and her white dress alike, the most beautiful smile he has ever seen plastered on her lips.

He had remembered, right then and there, the stories that his mother used to tell him at night, and he still recalls thinking in that moment that the girl looked like an angel. She had looked right at him, giggling again when the boy all but smiled at her, rendered speechless, but then she had been pulled away from them, from _him_ , and he had been left with murmurs of a woman reprimanding the little girl for running away from her nanny.

His mother had pulled him in the opposite direction when he tried to follow the girl and Stiles had complied – what could he have done, really? –, but he would see her again in short moments, after his family had been called to the Throne Room and formally introduced to the Queen.

He had been sitting away from the main conversation with his mother as, he learned years later, the Queen offered his father a noble position to thank him for what he had done for the Kingdom and the late King in the last war. Stiles’ mother had been threading a hand through the boy’s unruly hair and he had huffed in annoyance, not understanding why they had traveled from so far to talk to this pretty woman dressed in even prettier clothes so late at night, and then a door had opened and the little girl had come in running, her locks bouncing with every little step she had taken, and from that moment on Stiles had always been mesmerized by her.

Her mother had sent her a harsh look at the interruption and the girl had quickly stopped on her tracks. Stiles knew, from that exact moment in their lives, that the girl was a free spirit; trying every time she could to have her own way, make her own path. She had apologized politely and her mother had accepted her redemption, of course, being left with no choice but to introduce the young little princess to the Stilinskis albeit reluctant – The Queen had been protecting the little girl ever since the King had passed away the year before and it wasn’t easy for the woman to let her daughter loose.

(She has been suffering because of that for the last eleven years now.)

Stiles still remembers the Queen’s warm, melodious tone when her daughter’s name rolled out of her tongue. _Lydia_. He can’t also forget – and he has tried – that, after that night, he would use every occasion he could to pronounce her name when no one else was listening, when he didn’t have to be well-mannered and use formalities to address his friend. He was Stiles and she was Lydia. In his heart, that is how it always has been.

(And how it _should be_ , but he tries not to dwell on that thought for long.)

Before he knew it, his mother had been called to the main conversation as well to be told that they would be living in Court from then on, all the while Stiles sat awkwardly by himself in a chair far too fidgety, nervous because of the strange surroundings.

For his luck, it hadn’t been long until the young princess, unsupervised at the moment, came to his rescue – the irony! If only he could ever repay the favor – to play with him. She had extended her little hand to show him a flower that he had never seen before, with beautiful lavender-blue petals and a peduncle with such a vibrant green it could only rival her eyes.

(Stiles likes to think that the flower resembles _her_. Later in life he will learn that, in truth, it resembles _them_.)

“Here,” she had whispered conspiratorially as to not get caught, handing Stiles the flower for him to see up close.

He had taken it from her enthusiastically, eager and excited to learn about something new as he always has been, even as his eyelids started forcing the little boy to succumb to sleep for how late it was. He had smiled at the girl and given it back when his curiosity was satisfied. “It’s beautiful,” he had blurted out, his chubby cheeks turning rosy at the comment. Even after so many years, Stiles is not sure if he meant the flower or _her_.

The girl had chuckled and grabbed him by the hand, pulling him along and Stiles hadn’t hesitated in following.

(He never has, since then. He knows in his heart that he never will, if he ever sees her again.)

She had sat on a blanket so beautiful that Stiles had stopped abruptly when he saw it. He knows now that it was her favorite blanket, all red and white and gold, fitting of a princess, one that the Queen has kept away from prying eyes but that Stiles has been lucky enough to lay his eyes on once or twice. But back when they were children, the only thing Stiles would always think about when he saw it was how his mother always warned him not to touch anything too pretty, because it meant that it wasn’t for _them_.

(He’s thankful that the Stilinskis are higher hierarchically now, _he is_ , even if sometimes he wishes things were simpler.

But nothing ever is.)

Lydia had never cared about statuses and how it affected their dynamic, how it affected _them;_ just had Stiles sit with her on her favorite blanket to play endlessly because Stiles was her favorite person. Granted, there weren’t other kids around in the castle at the time so it was either Stiles or no one, and even though the Queen found the little boy a little too energetic and much of a blabbermouth sometimes, Lydia was happy and that was all that mattered.

So the Queen allowed it.

Neither of them would have had it any other way.

Years passed, and ever since that first day when they played on her blanket in the Throne Room while their parents discussed the future, Stiles and Lydia became inseparable. Together they explored all the hidden corners of that castle, running away from their mothers and nannies in a hype to discover new things, push the edge just a little further, and so they found themselves in the gardens often, playing with little wooden boats that Stiles’ dad had built for them to play with, watching them float with the light breeze on one of the many fountains of the castle, sometimes the lake.

In the sun, Lydia’s hair shone like no other and her eyes seemed to be part of the beautiful landscape, her smile as magnificent as everything else in life at Court, brighter when they were outside.

Those were his favorite times.

Then, anyway.

Ever since _she_ was taken, life seems dull to him, more so since his mother passed away three years after Lydia was taken away from them, from _him_. He still has his father and his friends, Stiles knows that, but it doesn’t make _that feeling_ go away. The feeling that there is something missing in his life, and he knows it has strawberry blond hair and green eyes.

He misses Lydia.

He misses his friend.

He hopes there will come a day when the hurting stops.

Stiles still remembers _that day_ rather vividly, much to his dismay. They had been playing in the gardens, a few family members and nobles all around in a day of celebration, a few more kids there for Stiles and Lydia to play with. The grounds had been decorated with so much color and life throughout, Spring in full force, and Stiles still remembers fleetly that Lydia was just as beautiful as everything else, maybe more.

Nothing could have prepared them.

There was no warning, no threat. Things had been relatively calm political-wise at the time, or so they thought. It came as a shock that when the kids started coming out of the maze where they had been playing hide and seek for a while, Lydia never returned. When everyone noticed that she was gone, chaos set itself among the crowd. Parents ran to their kids to make sure every single one of them was accounted for and the Queen ordered her knights to look for her daughter.

After too many agonizing, nerve wrenching moments, the Queen herself had ran frantically inside the maze to find her little girl too, with no luck.

Several more moments had passed.

Lydia had been nowhere to be found.

It wasn’t until dawn that a few peasants had hurried to the castle to ask for a word with the Queen in an urgent manner, letting the woman know that they’d seen a few men taking a sleepy little girl in their arms, one whose hair could only be of the princess. Because the men had outrun them, the peasants had chosen to alert the Queen instead of following the captors. They didn't have the right means to do it, anyway.

They had shown the knights which direction the men had taken and the Royal Army had followed suit, trying to find the princess. The castle had never been as vulnerable as then, with only a handful of men being left behind and all the others spread throughout the land, knights and nobles and peasants alike looking for the little girl.

They had searched everywhere they could think of in the whole kingdom throughout the years, but Lydia had never been found. Leads had been chased and people tortured and killed over information on her whereabouts, but still the kingdom remained a princess short.

Life had never been quite the same ever since, eleven years passed now.

Still, they managed.

Her close relatives and friends have not been exactly living, but they have been surviving the best they can.

Stiles remembers every little detail about _her_ like if no time has passed, like he can still see little Lydia beside him, laughing senselessly at his flailing limbs and graceless jokes, running along as they go in yet another adventure. He wonders what she would think of him now, a grown man so different from the little boy he was when he met her.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know how Lydia came to impact his life so much. She disappeared when they were seven years old and it has been eleven years since he saw her last. He likes to think that they were a good influence on each other and that that is why he feels so strongly about her, why he never forgot a single detail.

It’s the only explanation he can come up with.

Allison, however, thinks differently.

She had dragged her best friend to a fair a couple of years ago and she had insisted that Stiles would go with her see a fortune teller. The woman had foreseen that Stiles was tethered to someone very special, someone who had been missing from his life for quite some time. That it was fated that they would reunite again because their bond was just too strong for it to go any other way.

Allison believes the woman was referring to Lydia.

Stiles doesn't.

How can he believe in such things as fate or higher powers when Lydia was taken away from her family, from _him_ , to be put through such ordeal at that young age? When his mother died when he was still a little boy, or his father injured in war?

He can't.

Stiles doesn’t know if he ever will.

But he still knows by heart the color of _her_ hair, unruly flames shaped in gorgeous curls that he wishes he could see again. He never really got to run his fingers through them to see if they are as soft as they seem to be. Not that he’d ever get a chance, anyway.

He also remembers her fair skin. He remembers thinking that Lydia looked like she was made of the ivory he has seen in the carvings that adorn a book cover he saw once. He hopes she had remained untouched much like them, ever since she disappeared.

He remembers her freckles (and wonders how different Lydia would look like without them, now that some women try to disguise the way they look by painting their faces, damned be him if he understands why).

He remembers the little mole she has behind her ear and the other one on her wrist. The birth mark where her neck ends and her collarbone begins.

Her contagious laugh.

Her bright smile.

Her eyes.

God, he will never forget her eyes.

He remembers that the last thing she had asked him was “ _Will you find me?_ ” and that he had smiled and replied with “ _I_ _’ll find you_ ”, bowing respectfully right before they parted ways and entered the maze playfully, childish and happy grins on their faces.

He never heard _her_ voice again.

He wishes he had kept his promise.

He wishes he had found _her_.

And just maybe, after eleven years of living in a gray world, Stiles thinks he can see color again.

He peeks from behind a rather large tree, studies the land in front of him scrutinizingly attentive to detail as he always is in nature, and his heart stops beating when he sees auburn in the middle of the wheat field all of a sudden, a woman straightening up from where she was crouched down on the ground harvesting just before, where he couldn’t see her.

Stiles wasn’t even supposed to be there. Nothing on his mission had to do with looking for Lydia, so his brain doesn’t register that it’s _her_ fast enough because Stiles is left awestruck, unresponsive for he was losing hope he’d ever see her again after so many years.

He was starting to believe his memory wasn’t as faithful to reality as he hoped it was.

And he’s relieved to find out exactly that, because even if he’s quite far from where she is standing and her hair seems limp, it’s still more colorful than he remembers it.

His daze is interrupted harshly when a buzzing sound echoes through the air followed by a loud slap, a whip opening the flesh of her back quickly and effectively, a man yelling at her words that Stiles can’t distinguish, and because Stiles can’t believe his eyes and get back on his horse and gallop to rescue her fast enough, she is lashed twice more.

Stiles feels like he’ll empty the contents of his stomach even before he reaches _her_.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

It could have been anyone else, Stiles is aware. It could have been any other redhead that was being shouted at on a field she was laboring on, bleeding from her now bare back and weak from the hard work and the pain, barely managing to gather enough strength to try and run away from her attacker, but Stiles _knows_.

God, he knows it’s _her_.

_Lydia_.


	2. Chapter 1 - Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles rescues Lydia and they run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed the prologue, go check it out first before jumping right to this.
> 
> Also, beware of a character’s death on this chapter (background character, you won’t even know who it is until later, though I’m sure some of you will guess!). Please remember that this is a Medieval setting and that it was a bloodbath back then. It’s necessary for the story and I won’t refrain from it. I want it to be somewhat true to facts, though I won’t make it too graphic.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter. Happy reading :)

**\- Chapter 1 -**

**Chance**

It was supposed to be a simple surveillance mission.

Word had traveled to the castle that mysterious abductions were occurring at the most southerly point of the land, along with quite a few goring deaths and suspicious robberies. Usually, it would be something for the Lord of that estate to deal with but more than enough warnings had been brought to the Queen’s attention, so the woman - after discussing the matter with Argent and both Stilinskis - had decided to investigate further before acting.

And typically, it wouldn’t be something for Stiles to get himself into. He was one of the Queen’s most valued knights, one of the highest in hierarchy in the Royal Army - only after The Hunter himself, really. Therefore, he would only be sent to risky missions when strictly necessary.

Or so the Queen and his father wished for him.

To Stiles - and thankfully to Argent as well, who had always been incredibly supportive of Stiles' strengths and good intuition, aware that the young man is one of the most promising knights he has ever seen -, the dangerous missions were the ones that Stiles felt like he absolutely had to be part of.

If his men were risking their lives for the Kingdom and he was the one leading them, why should Stiles stay behind?

They argue about it sometimes, Stiles and his father, but the man understands. He was like that as well when it was him in his son’s place, and Stiles is just as strong and brave as all the rumors about him that go around say that he is, even more.

He is the best of the best and he leads his Army like no other.

(Well, Argent’s Army for now, but it won’t be long until the man steps aside and the Army will be Stiles’. In a way of learning and preparing for such an important role, Stiles already does most of the work for the man, anyway.)

The Royal Army had been separated to try and make sense of the situation, four fifths staying behind at the castle with Argent and the remaining sent on this particular mission. Stiles, of course, chose to go with them.

He didn’t have to, but he went.

It had been pure _chance_.

Life is weird like that.

The Kingdom of Beacon Hills is not too vast but still covers a considerable expanse of territory, so Stiles and his men had stationed themselves a few days away from the castle, down South, setting up their camp half a day away from the estate they were supposed to investigate - the estate that belongs to the House of Eichen, one of the most eery that Stiles has ever heard of -, hidden deep in a nearby forest not to raise much suspicions upon them.

After familiarizing themselves with the place, Stiles had then separated his men into groups of four that have been taking turns in heading South to explore whatever they deem worthy for the mission at hand.

The plan was simple, really.

Observe, report back to the others at camp by the end of each day, observe some more, and after a handful of days they would travel back to the castle and Stiles would take their findings, if there were any, to the Queen. Only then they would decide on a course of action.

The knights were not to act on anything during their mission unless if strictly needed, only in the last instance as instructed by the monarch. If the Royal Army was known for something throughout the whole land, was for their wise use of force, especially lethal. They were known for only resorting to it when their lives were blatantly in danger or if an innocent’s life was on the line.

And granted, Stiles and his men were already wary for this operation because word had it that things were getting violent down South, but Stiles was not actually counting on having to use force. Not so soon anyway, only three days into this particular mission.

But this?

Lydia, _his Lydia,_ being hurt right in front of his eyes? After too many years of everyone at Court, one by one, losing hope of finding her, let alone alive?

Stiles can’t take it. (Like he ever could.)

He has to do something about it. (It is as obvious to him as breathing is to live.)

It is a good thing that he is Stiles Stilinski and that this is why he is a knight.

(Okay, not necessarily to randomly find Lydia when he certainly was not expecting to, but her disappearance sure spurred his desire of becoming a knight, even from a very young age. Stiles loves to serve the greater good, to be selfless how his mother taught him to. He lives to serve the Queen and the Royal Army, to save the lives of others whenever the situation calls for it.

And Lydia, unfortunately, just so happens to be in such a situation right now.)

When the initial shock dissipates, Stiles does not hesitate in mounting his horse before unsheathing his sword and riding in the redhead’s direction as fast as he can, ready to take down his opponent and anyone else that dares to stand between Lydia and him. The afternoon sun blinds him momentarily as he steps out of the shadows as if giving him a sign.

A good or a bad one, he does not know.

It does not stop him.

In truth, it only makes him ride faster.

_Her_ eyes meet his when Stiles is close enough, pleading for help and so terrified that Stiles feels rage build inside him - even more than already was -, tears running down her cheeks as she tries, rather unsuccessfully, to escape the crazy-eyed man that is chasing her.

Stiles screams to get the man’s attention, praying to every higher entity that he does not believe in that the attacker turns around to face him at the sound of his cry of war, trying to distract him from running after Lydia.

Thankfully, the man does.

But when Stiles yells “ _Stop in the name of the Queen!_ ”, the other man only runs faster, catching up with Lydia and quickly yanking at her long red hair, pulling her backwards and to him, his arms engulfing her in a tight hold from behind so that she can’t escape, a small dagger threatening to cut at her throat. Lydia whimpers and Stiles hears it like she is just beside him, and not a few feet away like she actually is.

Stiles slows his speed until he stops altogether, jumping to the ground in front of them then, heart in his throat. His words taste of despise.

“You shall not hurt the princess!” he mutters, frantic, pulling at his horse's rein to keep him close - bless Roscoe, who has been such an amazing companion throughout the years and has saved his life more times that Stiles can really be proud of -, his sword wielded in the other man’s direction menacingly.

“Well, well, well,” the man chants, “looks like someone finally caught up with you, Your Highness.”

His tone is everything but respectful, insulting even, and Stiles thinks of several different ways he can approach the situation because, if anything, the man’s eyes look lunatic, and a lunatic man can do crazy, crazy things.

He watches as Lydia winces in pain when the man pulls her closer to him, when she desperately tries to scratch his face to get free from his hold. Stiles imagines that the flesh of her back must be open, raw and bloodied; her suffering is apparent on her features. “Let her go!”

“Oh, but I can’t do that,” the man replies. “You see, she is far too valuable for us to let go of her now. Her blood is of the utmost importance to our cause, My Lord.”

Stiles ignores the way the man is clearly mocking him, because at first Stiles thinks the man is referring to her lineage, but when the tip of the dagger starts literally digging into the skin of her neck - even if mostly superficially but deep enough to draw blood -, Stiles holds his breath, considering that maybe the man is being more literal than Stiles could have ever imagined.

His heart starts beating faster when a thin line of the dark red liquid runs down her neck to her collarbone, where Stiles finds her birthmark.

It really is _her_.

“If you don’t let her go, I will have to kill you,” Stiles warns. “She is coming with me.”

“A young boy like you, threatening me?” The man mutters sarcastically. “What are you gonna do?”

Stiles smirks wickedly. Yes, he is known throughout the land for his skills but it is a good thing that his mundane looks - a young man with brown hair and brown eyes - help with situations like this. Far from the castle and from people who have crossed his path, no one really knows who he is or what he actually looks like. He uses it as an advantage whenever he can. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

At that, both the man and Lydia study him for a moment, trying to place anything that might look familiar. Stiles can say that the man is at a complete loss, but Lydia’s eyes seem confused all of a sudden, like there is something that she can recall but can’t quite acknowledge yet. It isn’t until Stiles speaks again that she does. “I am Stiles of House Stilinski.” Lydia’s eyes widen immediately and he can tell that she remembers him. The other man, though, is left awestruck at the revelation, taking a step back and pulling Lydia with him.

Stiles takes a step forward, pulling the collar of his shirt to the side enough before continuing, so that the man can see the scar there, right above his heart, the one that most people in the kingdom have heard about. “I am a knight of the Royal Army and a servant of the Queen, and I have sworn to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You are threatening the life of the heir to the throne, and the princess is in danger in your hands.” Stiles takes another step forward, letting go of his shirt now that he can easily tell that the man knows who he is in front of. He must have heard the stories. _Good_. “So either you let her go unharmed and the law and the Queen will define your just punishment, or I shall kill you.” The man gulps. “This is your final warning.”

If Stiles were to be asked, he would say that the man pales a little at his words.

But then again, it is not the first time that Stiles gets this sort of reaction out of his opponents.

The man tries to feign boldness, even when Stiles can so clearly see that that is not the case, pulling harshly at Lydia’s hair and tilting her head to the side forcefully so he can speak in her ear. “You have gotten yourself a knight in shining armor, Your Grace, or so it appears.” Lydia sobs, looking away from the man. “Did you really kill _ten_ men all by yourself?” he asks Stiles, maddeningly curious. “Because I want to tell everyone I killed the little boy that everyone talks about - the one whose name precedes him - with my own hands. And I would like my facts to be accurate.”

Stiles acts fast, done with the situation. He hates these speeches.

Lydia yells “No!” when she hears the threat against Stiles’ life, trying to get away from the man’s grasp again and continuing sobbing. The man all but shoves her to the ground and away from him so that he can fight Stiles freely.

Even if unwanted, Stiles was already expecting that so when the man pushes Lydia away and revels at how helpless she looks before returning his gaze to Stiles, Stiles ducks fast, grabbing a small knife that he always has hidden in his boots and leaving his sword at his feet, changing weapons.

He was always better at hand-in-hand combat, anyway.

Stiles takes the man by surprise when he quickly gets up and runs forward, shoving him with his shoulder and knocking him off balance. The man recovers quickly, though, and lunges at Stiles unsteadily, trying to stab him with the dagger he still has in his hand. Stiles jumps back only enough to avoid it, not giving the man a chance to get to the sword or his horse and pushing the fight way from Lydia, holding his knife more firmly in his hand.

In the meantime, Lydia crawls backwards in the dirt away from her captor and in the horse’s direction, barely unable to move at all for how weak she feels, with the intention of moving as close to Stiles - to safety - as she can. In horror – and with much difficulty, since the tall wheat interferes -, she watches them struggle for dominance, Stiles clearly having the upper hand even if the other man is more built and older and taller and gets to punch him once or twice. Stiles does not even waver, nor does he make a sound when his opponent manages to cut at his forearm in an erratic movement, a desperate attempt at harming the young man that thankfully does not work in his favor.

Stiles uses it to grab the man’s wrist before he can straighten up after cutting Stiles, and even if he’s hurting, Stiles doesn’t stop. He pulls the man down by his wrist, knees him twice on the stomach and slams his fists on the man’s back as hard as he can until he falls to his knees. He doesn’t hesitate in stabbing the knife in the man’s throat, blood streaming down his neck immediately as his crazy eyes become fuzzy, clouded.

“ _Twelve_ ,” Stiles murmurs, and even if he wanted to, the man would not be able to speak up his confusion. “Twelve men, not ten, and I’m still standing. And that was just one time, anyway,” Stiles says, pulling the knife out and taking a step back.

The man still tries, rather slowly for all of his strength is vanishing, to bring his hands up to stop the bleeding to no avail.

Stiles could not care less about it.

He turns around to find Lydia kneeling on the ground and close to Roscoe, looking right at him with teary eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he would say that time had stopped.

There is a moment where everything is still before he makes his way towards her slowly, his heart stammering in his chest faster than it was when he was in the middle of the fight just before.

He places his knife on a small bag he has tied to the saddle before reaching out to her not to scare her further, and before he can say anything, she does.

“Stiles?” she asks, more uncertain for how unreal it is that he is there than anything else. “Stiles, is it really you?”

He honestly thought he would never hear her voice again.

Stiles has never felt so relieved.

Maybe only when he nods and falls to his knees in front of her, lower lip trembling and mouth dry all of a sudden, rendered speechless as he so often used to be around her when they were children, her green eyes recognizing his amber ones.

He files this moment in his mind with the ones he will never forget in his life.

For a moment, he thinks he might cry.

She does, fresh tears running down her stained cheeks as she moves to hug him messily, so weakly that Stiles is even stunned that she can move at all. His hands move to her hair, to the back of her neck, and his eyes flutter closed at how right this moment feels, having her in his arms after so long, after not knowing if she was alive or dead, if she was okay. “I’ve got you now. I won’t let anything else happen to you,” he lets out. “I’ll get you out of here.”

They stay like that for only a moment and he sighs before letting go. She is still crying when he helps her up, her name sounding too strange in his tongue. It’s been too long. “Lydia, we have to get going.” He looks around and over the wheat field for something out of the ordinary, someone else that could be around and would have seen the scene, but he notices nothing. The wheat may have helped hiding them. “Were you two alone?”

Lydia seems numb, in shock.

It worries him further.

She nods slowly after a while, looking down in embarrassment and attempting to cross her arms at her chest, wincing when she realizes that her back aches more that way. “Ye- Yes. Everyone else is down at the Manor,” she says, trying to point at the enormous house that can be seen almost a mile away and wincing again. “He likes…” She looks at her captor, now lying on the floor, with nothing but hate in her eyes. “ _Liked_ to bring me outside every once in a while, order me around until he deemed I was not being good enough for whatever he had in mind for the day. And then he would…”

She sobs and glances over her shoulder, and Stiles peeks as well to take a better look at her injuries, her cream dress - clearly like the ones of a peasant, the blasphemy! - ripped open almost until the very end of her back and mostly painted red with her blood, three long gashes opening the flesh and still bleeding. It does not go unnoticed to Stiles how these are recent wounds, but older scars can be seen on her skin as well. She is barefoot too, small cuts and bruises making her feet dirty and swollen, same with her hands.

He has to think clinically, quickly, if he intends on getting her out of there safely.

He barely wastes any time.

Stiles takes off his cape and one of his shirts, handing it to her. “Dress the shirt and then put the cape over your shoulders,” he instructs. “The sun is almost setting and it will get cold soon. I know it is not much, but at least the cape will not be directly over your wounds and hurt you even more. But we need to go, and soon, before someone finds us.”

Being out in the open like that is just looking for trouble.

Lydia hesitates for a moment before doing as he told her, all the while Stiles goes retrieve his sword from the ground and then pat his horse fondly, murmuring in its ear calmly.

Her voice breaks the silence, barely a murmur. “Stiles… Stiles, I can’t-”

He glances in her direction to find Lydia trembling so much that the fabrics fall from her small hands as she struggles to slip his shirt on her body, flinching in pain with every movement. He is in front of her in an instant, picking up his shirt from the ground and helping her put it on the best that he can. When the cape is over her shoulders, Stiles laces the string so that the cloak will not fall, wiping away her tears and cupping her cheeks in the process.

His touch lingers for a moment too long but Stiles does not have it in himself to care.

Lydia doesn’t either.

Noticing her chapped lips, Stiles reaches for a small leather canteen he also has on Roscoe and gives it to her. “Here, have some water.” The last time she was granted any beverage was three days ago, so she reaches for it immediately, drinking avidly. He lets her. “We should go,” he repeats, urgency in his tone.

“I know,” Lydia nods and hands the canteen back to him, watching how gracefully Stiles gets back on his horse and extends his hand towards her. “I do not… I do not know how…” Lydia says, and it is hard to discern which of them is more embarrassed; Lydia because she can’t remember the last time she has been so close to a horse, or Stiles for admitting that she would know how to handle one.

He tells her what to do and helps her up, feeling guilty to his core that he doesn’t have any other way to help her until he reaches his camp. And even then, he will not be able to do much. Not until they’re home.

“This is going to hurt,” he tells her, placing his hand over hers when Lydia puts her arms around his waist and entwines her fingers together for support as they start moving slowly. “I am so sorry, Lydia, but we have to get out of here fast and it’s only going to hurt you more. But it’s… It’s all I can do, it’s the only way-”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts him, her voice hoarse. “I understand.”

“I am so sorry,” he whispers, looking over his left shoulder to find her right there, so close that his heart skips a beat.

“I can take it,” she says fiercely, and he believes her sincerity, if anything for the way her gaze hardens at her words, her burden showing in her eyes.

It makes him feel sick, worse every time he feels her wince behind him as they gallop as fast as Roscoe will let them. She cries against his shoulder and onto his shirt the whole ride and keeps muttering _thank you_ after _thank you_ after _thank you_.

In return, Stiles apologizes profusely. For the pain he is causing her now, for the pain she had been subjected to right before he could reach her, for everything she was put through during the eleven years she was away and for not finding her earlier.

_I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry_.

The hand that is not on the reins never leaves hers, afraid that she might vanish if he gets distracted for the briefest of moments. She seems to do something similar, looking over his shoulder constantly as if she needs to make sure that this is _him_ , that he is, in fact, there.

They can’t help but to feel like this could be an illusion.

And still, her touch and her presence, the way she just _is_ , are already engraved in his memory. For life, he is sure, and the only thing he can think of is that it feels like finally being complete after years of being just a half, even if whatever whole he is now feels broken, damaged, in need of deep care.

Lydia mirrors him perfectly, from the way she feels to the way she clings to him as if reality might slip of her fingers if she lets go.

As they ride, they pray silently even if neither is religious or believes in entities higher than themselves and those who walk on Earth. Life has taught them that it shows no mercy, no kindness if that’s what it is to be, and still they both pray that this is true, that this is real, that the other is there. They wouldn’t know how to handle such treason if life where to decide to play such trick on them.

And thankfully, after so long, they won’t have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and let me know what you’re thinking so far. Next up, two characters will be introduced and a third mentioned. Guesses are welcome :p


	3. Chapter 2 – Implicit trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes Lydia back to his camp and tends to her wounds with the help of one of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, everyone! Here’s chapter two!!
> 
> Trigger warning: There’s a hint, more of a passing mention of past abuse that will be explored in a future chapter. Just thought I’d let you know beforehand.
> 
> In this chapter, two characters are introduced (one more relevant than the other), a third is mentioned in passing and a fourth I’ll leave for you to guess :p
> 
> Enjoy xx

The sun has set long ago when Stiles starts slowing down.

“Lydia?” he murmurs, having noticed a while before that she had fallen asleep leaning against him, tiredness winning her over. “Lydia?” he asks again, squeezing her hands softly.

She stirs slowly, blinking and scanning her surroundings a little confused at first. Stiles makes his horse come to a halt altogether. “No one followed?” she asks right away when she gathers her bearings, an overwhelming fear striking her once again even though relief washes over her when she realizes that Stiles is still there.

“No,” he murmurs back. Lydia looks around, finding out that they seem to be deep inside a forest. The moonlight will not let her see much but the shadows of all the vegetation around them. “If no one was close by to know what happened, I’m guessing it would have taken some time for someone to notice that the guy was missing, let alone that you are gone.” Stiles looks over his shoulder, noticing that she looks paler now than before. He is not sure whether it is just from the dim light of the moon or something more. “We are almost there.”

Lydia nods and Stiles makes a clicking sound with his tongue. The horse starts moving again, rather slowly this time. “Where are we going?”

“My men and I are stationed nearby. There was word that a few strange things were happening here in the South, so we arrived a couple of days ago to find out more about it.”

“Your men?” she asks breathily, rather tired but curious nonetheless.

Stiles nods. “Yes. Knights of the Royal Army, like me.” He whistles twice when they are close enough, letting his comrades know that he is with them and not a threat. “Pull your hair back and hide it well under the hood,” he tells her. “I trust most of these men with my life, but the fewer people know who you are, the better. And keep your head down.”

Lydia does so, trying to move the less that she can without opening the wounds on her back even more. She starts seeing light soon, a handful of torches illuminating a small camp in the middle of a hidden clearing in the dead of night, a tent somewhat large in the center and a few others - smaller ones, seemingly improvised - around it. She can also see a fire and three men sitting close by, a few more people scattered around the small area.

Two of those men come meet the newcomers midway - hands on their swords just in case - to make sure that it is Stiles, Lydia guesses.

He confirms it. “It’s me, Stiles. Are Boyd and the others back yet?”

As they approach, one of the men - the taller one - shakes his head. “No, My Lord. Not yet.”

Stiles had assumed as much. He and his knights usually only return to camp at sunset and the group agrees on a different meeting point in the beginning of each day. By the end of it, they are to meet there and travel back to camp together for safety. If one of them is missing, the others are to proceed according to the plan and regroup back at camp, waiting out on those who might have had a setback.

Thankfully, until now, it hadn’t happened. They have always regrouped at the meeting point at the end of each afternoon, but not today.

Stiles couldn’t risk it.

He has Lydia with him now.

“And how are things here?”

Both men try to get a glimpse of who is under the cloak, Lydia can tell, but she doesn’t dare move until Stiles tells her to.

“Everything is as to be expected. We were just about to dine, actually,” the short one replies.

“Great, I’m starving,” Stiles replies before instructing the man. “Set up the perimeter and tell the others to eat in turns. Our defenses should be up at all times.” The knight, the shorter one, looks like he is about to argue but Stiles doesn’t let him. “I want no one near the tent after you are all satiated unless I specifically ask for you, are we understood?” The other man is barely resigned but nods nonetheless, following Stiles’ orders and starting to walk away. “And Whittemore?” The man looks at Stiles over his shoulder. “Keep your eyes open.”

The knight, Whittemore, notes the serious tone in Stiles’ voice, as does Lydia. Nodding curtly, he leaves them to go instruct the other men accordingly, as it seems to Lydia from afar at least.

“What is going on?” The second man asks, alert.

“I will explain in time. Make sure that the perimeter is secure and then gather your things. Get ready to leave soon. Whenever you’re ready, go grab something to eat and bring enough for three. You are eating with us tonight.” He motions for himself and Lydia, who is still hiding away from prying eyes. “But call for me first before entering the tent. Are we clear?”

The knight nods swiftly. “Yes, Sir.”

And just as quickly as both men approached them, Stiles and Lydia are left by themselves again. “Keep quiet,” he murmurs, dismounting and then helping Lydia onto her two feet as well, tying Roscoe’s reins to a branch from a nearby tree and reaching out for Lydia’s hand absently.

It’s only when they are almost entering the tent that Stiles realizes it has been eleven years since he held her hand last.

It had not really occurred to him until that moment.

He lets go reflexively, abashed that he had taken such an initiative towards someone that his mind keeps forgetting is not just a friend, but the _princess_. Lydia, though, does not even hesitate in grabbing hold of his hand again, feeling safe with his presence, waiting for Stiles to resume walking because he had stopped.

Neither says a word about it.

Lydia keeps well hidden under his cape until they find themselves inside the tent and Stiles lets go of her, pacing around the space quickly to gather a few items that he places on what Lydia assumes is serving as a bed.

“You can take off the cape now, and the shirt,” he tells her. “I should take a look at your wounds to make sure that they do not get infected.” Lydia starts untying the knot on the cape with shaking hands as Stiles rummages through a large leather bag that is on the floor, close to a small stump. “We don’t have much here to help you with, but I think I can at least help with the pain and clean up the wound some. It’s all I can do until we get back.”

Stiles leads her to the improvised bed and gestures for her to sit so he can examine her bare back up close, helping Lydia take off his shirt. He ignores the way that it is completely stained and reeks of blood the best that he can. The gashes are not too deep but they will take their time to heal, and she will be in a lot of pain for the next few days. It will not help that they will have to get moving soon if he intends on taking Lydia back home safely in the near future.

Stiles squats in front of her, tilting her chin up to meet her eyes. “Lets get you cleaned up, alright?" His eyes sparkle brimming with tears, and Lydia barely manages a broken smile before he continues. He looks so sad and worried for her that it hurts _her_. "And then I will get you something to eat and you can rest safely, at least for a little bit. You look like you haven’t slept in days…” he comments, concerned.

Lydia's lower lip starts to tremble and it takes her a few moments to reply. Stiles waits for her, silent as he has ever been. “I have nightmares most nights, so I… I try my best not to fall asleep very often. And when I succumb to sleep, I will just wake up screaming. And it is not good when I wake up screaming…” She confesses, starting crying silently once more and hiding her face in her hands, sobbing in between little gasps of air.

It breaks his heart.

He doesn’t even think of anything else but to comfort her and she is crying on his shoulder again in no time at all. Stiles is not ashamed to admit that he starts crying as well not after long.

Nothing in the tent can be heard but their hushed words soothingly murmured only for the other to hear, and it does not really hit him as true until she speaks it out loud, when their crying quiets and they just stay in their embrace for as long as they can.

“You really _are_ here, aren’t you? It’s really _you_."

It is barely a murmur, and Stiles briefly wonders if he is not the only one to whom the whole situation seems unreal, almost out of this world. He swallows dryly, nervous he wouldn’t know why. "Yes, it really is me." Stiles kneels on the hard ground, sitting on his heels as he looks her over again, trying to discern just how much of an hallucination she is, how much of a vivid dream like the ones he has had so many times before.

She seems just as astounded as he is.

His hands move to cup her stained, cold cheeks despite his efforts - which really are not his best - not to touch her. "I thought I would never see you again."

A few more moments pass them by without a single word, and before either of them can start crying again or say something more, Stiles reaches for an old rag and soaks it with water that is on another - this one bigger - canteen that was in the tent, softly cleaning her face and ridding her of most signs of tiredness, slavery, hurt; the ones he can wash away anyway.

Her eyes look so worn-out that it makes him cringe.

They keep silent when words cannot express enough how sorry he feels for what happened to her or how grateful she is that he has finally found her. When all that there is left, at least for the moment being, is sorrow and pain. And so Stiles proceeds to clean the blood from her neck, from the small wound her captor had made there, as he considers what is the best approach to treat her bare back.

His index finger brushes her birthmark softly just because he can and he sighs in relief.

Stiles doesn’t know much of medicine or herbalism - or even magic, for that matter, as some people claim to -, but he knows by heart what his father has taught him, tricks and ways passed on to the man by his late wife whenever his father got himself into trouble - which, from what Stiles was told, had been quite often. Stiles is grateful for it, though, otherwise he cannot even imagine how he would help Lydia right now.

When he can see the small wound on her neck clearly and is about to get up to kneel behind her instead of in front of her to check on her bloodied back, Stiles notices how her dirty dress had all but fallen to her lap, sliding off of her shoulders. Her hands are resting on her lap as well, in small fists atop of the fabric, her whole torso completely exposed to him and to the cold that is settling itself in the night.

Stiles doesn’t seem fazed by it, his protective instinct towards her overcoming him. If anything, it makes him even more scared for her when he notices bruises and marks that should, most definitely, not be there, marking her fair skin. Worse only after he glances up at _her_.

Lydia seems to be numb, devoid of emotion and staring ahead but looking at nothing at all. His heart clenches in his chest like it never has before.

"Lydia."

He murmurs her name calmly not to startle her and Lydia meets his eyes rather slowly, still somewhat dazzled. Stiles pulls at the sleeves of her dress, trying his best not to look at her bare chest as he brings them up so that Lydia can pull on the gown again, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. Only a little while after Lydia realizes that the piece of clothing had fallen, and Stiles patiently waits for her to start moving her hands.

What terrified him the most? That Lydia didn’t even seem bothered in being partially naked in front of a man.

Just when Stiles starts debating with himself if he should ask her about it or just explain to her what he is going to do, how he intends on tending to her wounds so he can divert the subject from what, he is sure, would be a conversation far too intimate and traumatizing to have when he has only gotten Lydia back, a voice calls for him from outside of the tent they are in. “My Lord?”

Stiles sighs in relief again, if anything for the distraction of where his mind was wandering to, to all the unimaginable things that Lydia must have endured during her captivity. It's leaving him sick, lightheaded. He barely manages to let out a "Yes?"

"It's Parrish. Can I come in?" the voice asks from outside.

Lydia automatically clutches onto Stiles' hand with the one she has free, the one that is not holding her gown in place. Stiles squeezes back. "It's okay. He can help," Stiles murmurs in reassurance.

Lydia takes a moment too long to accept it but eventually nods, trusting Stiles implicitly. "Okay."

Stiles can't help the way his thumb brushes softly against her knuckles. "Alright." He raises his tone a little bit. "Come in."

As soon as the man - the taller one from before - enters the tent, Stiles shushes him and gestures for him to approach. The knight does so quietly, all the items he brings in his hands quickly placed on top of the stump as he eyes Lydia curiously. Stiles can tell easily that Parrish recognizes something about her, even if he's probably not sure of what.

"This is Parrish," Stiles explains lowly to Lydia, who refuses to let go of his hand. "He is one of my most trusted men and a good friend of mine. He will help us," he tells her, a small smile making its way to his lips before he turns from Lydia to his comrade. "Parrish, this is Lydia," Stiles whispers. "She is-"

Stiles doesn't get to say anything else as realization hits Parrish and he connects the dots. The color of the woman’s hair seems far duller than Stiles and the stories about her describe, and the same goes for the color of her eyes. She could easily be any Lydia and nothing about her appearance denotes royalty at the moment, and yet Parrish notices the way Stiles gets teary and nods in acknowledgment, letting him know that it is, in fact, the princess.

Parrish drops the formalities, because even if for him and all the others Stiles is the one in command, in here, when it's just the two - well, three - of them, Stiles is one of his best friends, and he is telling him that he finally found _her_ after so long.

Parrish gawks for a moment, not at Lydia but at Stiles, before clasping a hand over his mouth in surprise, his eyes wide. “You- Stiles, you found her. You found _her_.”

Stiles replies with a watery smile, barely nodding his head. “I did.” It comes out much more broken than he hoped it would, and Stiles feels even worse about the whole thing when he sees Parrish get down on one knee and bowing his head in reverence to the princess, and it hadn't even crossed Stiles’ mind that he should have already done the same thing.

“Your Grace,” Parrish mutters, keeping his eyes down as Lydia all but looks at Stiles helplessly.

She was not, most certainly, expecting such a thing.

But then again, when she woke up this morning she was not counting on being rescued either.

Lydia holds Stiles’ hand more firmly, feeling uneasy. “You can get up,” Stiles tells the knight. Lydia keeps quiet while Parrish gets up on his feet again. “I need your help. She is hurt.”

Parrish nods quickly. “What happened?" he asks, getting closer to check for himself when Stiles gestures for him to do so. Upon seeing Lydia’s back, Parrish inhales sharply. "What happened?" he repeats, shocked.

"Whip," Stiles replies quickly. "Just when I found her."

It takes Parrish a moment to accept the situation. Had it not been for Stiles the only time that Parrish witnessed such a thing, Parrish doesn't know how they would have made it out of such a terrifying circumstance. And had it not been for Stiles then, Parrish would be spilling his guts right about now.

Parrish had hoped, prayed that he would never have to see such wounds again. His voice shudders. "Like what happened with-"

"Yes" is the only thing Stiles murmurs in response, remembering all too well the time they had both been in a similar situation and how much of a traumatic experience it had been, especially for Parrish since it had been his beloved then, someone he cherishes so much.

It had certainly been worse for the woman in question, the sister of a dear friend of Stiles.

And now it is Stiles' turn to be in such a position.

Just their luck.

After the initial shock vanishes, Parrish does not waste any more time. "What can I do?”

Stiles replies immediately, not wanting to waste any more precious time either. “I think some of the men have coltsfoot. Bring me some if you find it, and hot water. And if anyone has sage leaves, boil them. I was thinking maybe we would clean up the wounds and bandage them, and while Lydia rests for a little while we can discuss routes. We need to get moving soon. Boyd should be on his way here already, so by the time he arrives we will be ready to leave. Oh, and let the others know that they might hear some distressed sounds from the tent. They are not to enter unless we tell them to.”

Parrish nods. "I will be right back."

He is not gone for long, and in the meantime Stiles snatches one of the bowls that Parrish had brought in and pours a liquid inside it that makes Lydia wrinkle her nose at the strange smell it exudes.

"What is that?" she asks, watching him carefully as Stiles leaves that bowl to put a handful of seeds on another.

Stiles explains what he intends to do while rummaging inside the large leather bag once more, taking out a few rags this time. Lydia could never tell the kind of fabric, but she notices that it looks expensive, delicate.

"This is vinegar," he tells her, pointing to the first bowl. "It will hurt like hell, but it will help us clean your wounds. And these," he gestures to the second recipient, "are yarrow seeds. They will help with the pain. With a little honey and coltsfoot, I will make a concoction that we can apply to the slashes on your back. Same with the sage, and it will help hold everything in place. That is all that we have here at camp that we can help you with right now," Stiles says sadly, ripping one of the rags in two and soaking it in the bowl with the vinegar. “It really is going to hurt and I am sorry, Lydia. But we are still a few days away from the castle and if we don't do anything about your wounds, they might get infected on our way there. I don't want you any more hurt than you already are but we really have to do this,” he whispers, letting out a sigh. “I really, really am sorry,” he mumbles, not meeting her eyes as if he is ashamed. "But I don't know what else to do..."

"It's okay," she offers. It's the only thing she can reply to that and pain is something that she is used to by now.

"No! It is not okay! It is not okay that you are hurt," he tells her, eyes brimming with tears again, "it is not okay that it took us this long to finally find you. It is not okay that you were taken in the first place," he lets out, frustrated. "Nothing about this is okay, Lydia, and I am sorry."

"I can take it," she says fiercely, trying to disguise the way her voice trembles when she speaks.

"You should not have to," he murmurs in response, a tear falling from the corner of his eye before he can help it.

Lydia moves slowly to wipe it away and make him face her, tilting his chin up like he had done before. "Stiles, I am here. I am..." Her lower lip quivers. "I am here now."

Stiles can only stare back, his breath caught in his throat not letting him say anything else.

He acts on impulse, longing for more of her touch, of her presence close to him as if he needs more reassurance that Lydia is actually real. That she is, in fact, in front of him right in that moment. He leans forward, and surprisingly Lydia mirrors his action at the same time, their foreheads meeting as their eyes close, stray tears staining their cheeks yet again, quiet sobs the only sound that can be heard.

They stay like that until she's crying on his shoulder once more, his hands buried in her hair, the one she has free resting on his neck, holding on to him as fiercely as she can. It isn't until Parrish comes back that they part, and when they do they both feel at peace in a way they haven't in a while.

The knight asks for permission to re-enter the tent, placing a few more items on the stump like he had done before when Stiles tells him he can come in. Parrish obviously notices that his friend and the princess had been crying but doesn't comment on it. Both Stiles and Lydia are grateful for that.

"No coltsfoot," Parrish regrets to inform them. "They used the little we had on Jackson the last time he was injured." Stiles grunts lowly at that, a hand quickly placed on his shoulder in understanding when Parrish notices his best friend's distress. "We can still make it work, you'll see."

Stiles looks up at Parrish and gives him a weak smile and a nod of his head, soon getting up to prepare everything with him while Lydia waits, hushed murmurs shared between both men that Lydia can't quite understand. When they are ready, Parrish makes his way around where she's sitting, displaying a few items behind her as Stiles kneels in front of her again.

His hand find the one she has on her lap to hold absently. "I know you are probably hungry..." He knows that she sure as hell look like it. "But we need to take care of your wounds. And since it's going to hurt, I think it's best if we do that first and then you can eat, either before or after you rest. If the pain is too much, there is a chance you might faint, and if you've had food not too long ago, it won't help you in any way."

Lydia nods in agreement. "I trust your judgement. I trust you."

And she does. Implicitly.

He had told her he would find her and he did, however long it took him.

Stiles swallows dryly at the responsibility that her words denote but Lydia only squeezes his hands in return, forever grateful. Parrish watches the interaction in silence before giving his attention to Stiles, truthful to their agreement moments before. Parrish speaks slowly to explain everything to the princess. "So first we will try to clear your wounds with vinegar and Stiles is right. It's really going to hurt."

"It's okay," Lydia replies with a raspy voice.

Parrish nods before continuing, already having discussed it with Stiles. "We will dry your back after that, make sure it's all cleaned. And we smashed some yarrow seeds and mixed them with honey, so we will put them on those cuts and cover them with the sage leaves. It will help with any fever and inflammation you might have. Then we will just bandage you up to make sure that everything stays in place."

"If you feel like you'll faint, it's alright," Stiles says. "I will be right here looking out for you. So will Parrish. Nothing is going to happen to you. I won't let anyone take you, alright?"

"I won't," Lydia murmurs resolute. Pain has been such a common factor in her life that she doesn’t think many things could hurt her too much anymore.

She is obviously underestimating how tired she is, Stiles thinks. She looks so debilitated that it's making him more and more worried. However, her stubbornness is somewhat a relief to him. It reminds Stiles of the little Lydia he once knew. "It's okay to give in to it, Lydia," he repeats.

She sees the concern in his eyes. "I'll try not to", she concedes partly, taking a deep breath.

"However this goes, you can rest for a little while after that. And once you are feeling better, you can eat if you want. All the while, Parrish and I will make plans for us to leave as soon as possible. We won't be safe here for long."

Lydia nods once in acknowledgement and Stiles closes his eyes, biting on his lower lip briefly and wishing he could stand all the pain he knows she will be feeling in a moment. It sickens him knowing that there is no other way around it.

The same way, there's no helping how one of his hands cup her face, his thumb slowly brushing across her cheekbone when he opens his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Lydia can see the sorrow so clearly in the way he’s looking back at her that her mouth goes dry, emotion overcoming her. "It’s for the best."

A moment passes them by without words, and only when Stiles gathers the courage to continue he looks up at Parrish, who takes out the soaked rag from the bowl with vinegar in response, knowing it’s time.

“Do you uh-” the knight hesitates, the repetition of their actions making him anxious. He can’t believe him and Stiles are in such a position again. “Maybe we should stay like this? I’ll treat her wounds and you stay there?” he asks, uncertain. “Since last time it was the other way around…”

Lydia wants to ask about it to find out more but refrains, feeling tired to her core.

Stiles… Stiles knows exactly what he’s asking. The last – and they wish it had been the only – time this happened, Stiles had been the one treating their friend - the girl that Parrish is betrothed to now - while she screamed in Parrish’s arms and worn herself out because of the pain.

Seems like this time Stiles will have to be the one holding his own beloved, and even though it breaks his heart, Stiles finds himself nodding.

Parrish is the one breaking the silence, addressing Lydia. “Here, Your Grace,” he murmurs, unable to put off formalities where the princess is concerned and handing her a small but sturdy branch. “To prevent that you bite on your tongue.”

Lydia takes it from the knight reluctantly, unsure of its real value since every time she has screamed in her past, there had been nothing to prevent Lydia from tasting her own blood.

Stiles continues. “Bite on it. Grunt and scream all you have to, but just… Bite on it. It will hurt, but in the end it will be better than the alternative.”

Lydia does as she is told, putting the small branch in between her lips and taking a deep breath before digging her teeth on the wood. Stiles’ hands fall from her face to her lap, pulling Lydia down to him already because he knows it’s where she will be in just a moment, crying out in suffering. It both helps him soothe her and avoids that her gown falls again, all the while leaving her back exposed to Parrish so he can work on her properly.

“Are you ready, Your Grace?”

The words slip out of Parrish’s mouth in a sad tone for he knows what comes next. He wishes it didn’t have to come to this.

Lydia nods against Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles closes his eyes, holding her close, inhaling sharply when Parrish starts cleaning Lydia’s wounds and Stiles feels her wriggle against him, lowly grunting through her gritted teeth and indenting the wood, he’s sure.

The aching sound only turns louder as Parrish continues, more so when the skin of her back his raw but not bloodied anymore but the knight has to apply the concoction. Stiles knows she’s crying and he is too, one of his hands soothingly running through her hair as he whispers everything he can think of in her ear in a vain attempt to make the pain go away.

She lasts longer than Stiles ever though she would but eventually Lydia starts feeling dizzy, lightheaded despite herself, completely exhausted, and it’s when Parrish is almost finished that she feels her eyes close against her will as she slips into unconsciousness, and the world around her becomes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think about the story and the character’s roles so far. You can send my way any guesses about who Parrish’s fiancé is :)


End file.
